


To Sing Sorrow's Songs (For You I'll Always Sing)

by RonnaWren (Wolf_of_Lilacs)



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Karma's a bitch, M/M, Swan Song, references to a faustian bargain, self-delusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 08:16:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12186315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/RonnaWren
Summary: It's too late for him.We've heard this song a hundred times before.





	To Sing Sorrow's Songs (For You I'll Always Sing)

**Author's Note:**

> This is two months late, and I'm not making any excuses. Just... thank god it's done.

The end begins with a bang, of sorts. Or maybe it didn't begin, merely marched inexorably closer in a series of ceaseless whimper-bangs that worsened with each passing day, especially when it seemed impossible that they could.

For instance, it wasn't like he'd been opposed to Comey's firing, or much of anything the President did (except hiring Kushner, that asshole). Frankly, he'd kind of encouraged it, with wanting to stay in the President's good graces and all. ("Oh yeah, Mr. President. You can't trust him. Can I kiss you?" "Ugh, go for it, Reince. You're a bitch, but at least you're my bitch.") 

Then there was Sean, doing things that seemed excessive for even him. Oh god Sean—

Sean is looking at him reproachfully. "I do what I have to," he says. "If I'm bombarded with questions I have no answers to, hell, hiding in bushes until I have something—anything, dammit—is the best I can do."

Sean is holding Reince's wrist, turning his hand over to trace the lines of his palm. "Mike is gonna resign before they fire him."

"I know."

"How much longer will any of us last, Reince?"

He shakes his head. Sean sighs.

"So much for any of this. You got us jobs in the fucking White House—thanks for that, by the way—and none of us will keep them." Sean walks off, leaving Reince to seek out other, marginally friendlier associates—though whether they like him better is doubtful. Steve (Bannon, not the little suck-up Miller) sits in Reince's office like he owns it—nothing unusual there, sipping from a bottle of cheap scotch surreptitiously nestled in the crook of his arm.

Drinking on the job is routine, now, just another whimper-bang. "Hand that over," Reince snaps, "or get out."

"Get your own," Steve grumbles, but passes him the scotch anyway. Reince takes a large gulp, and coughs. "Where the hell did you find this shit?"

"Hey, I was going for quantity over quality. There's a lot more where this came from. And I mean, like, a lot more."

*

His meetings with the President are all pretty much the same: Discuss plans, wait for reprimand, protest, fuck. Though when the New York Times publishes the thing about "Ryan-ce" and Reince-the-hovering-butler, Donald won't even give him proper meetings (and forbids Reince from using his first name), except to complain about leaks.

"Who the fuck leaked that shit I said?" he snarls—his favorite question of late. "Was it you, Reince?"

"Mr. President, I would never leak sensitive information, not when your agenda is at stake."

"You sure aren't doing a good job of stopping them, or at anything else. Maybe you aren't really trying?"

Reince shakes his head. "I have tried, but everything I'm doing to prevent them just gets leaked in turn."

"And that's your own damn fault. Figure something out, or you're gone." Trump kisses violently enough to bruise. Kiss of Death? Reince wonders ruefully.

*

"You know what the President says about you to the rest of the staff," Sean hisses, digging his nails into Reince's shoulder just before the mother of all foreign trips.

"I don't care," Reince replies. "If I can keep my damn job, I'll do anything."

Sean snorts derisively. "Will you really? Stab your friends in the back? Go against Paul Ryan?" Sean forestalls his protest with a sharp gesture. "I have a hard time believing you'll do that. I've worked with you long enough. I know how you feel about him."

Goodness, who fucking cares.

"Probably," he decides, not quite believing his own words. "I mean, I haven't got much more to lose. … But it won't come to that."

"Oh, are you implying something about me?" Sean stalks out, leaving an uncomfortable emptiness behind. Good grief, he's touchy. Hiding in the bushes did a number on him…

*

"I don't like traveling like this," the President admits, throwing an arm across Reince's back as the two of them sit in the cramped space of one of Air Force One's bathrooms.

Reince lets out a breath, burying his head against Trump's chest, inhaling his scent: a mix of sweat, cologne, and the burger he's recently eaten. "You'll be fine," Reince murmurs. "Everything will be fine," he repeats. Maybe it will be, if he says it enough, like an incantation…

Trump kisses him, biting his lower lip until he draws blood, running his hands beneath Reince's unbuttoned shirt, his nails leaving crescent marks on his ribs.

"Do whatever you want," Reince tells him. "I deserve it all, Mr. President."

"Yes, you do." Trump growls then, pulling away from Reince's mouth, licking away the blood as he goes, kissing his way down his chest. He sucks and bites at Reince's hip as he reaches it, his hand opening Reince's pants and grasping his cock. He sprawls heavily across Reince's legs, making it impossible for him to move away—not that he intends to try. Reince doesn't make a sound. This isn't like the campaign. Sex doesn't have anything to do with what Reince wants anymore.

*

"Happy to be going back?" Steve asks as the two of them sit together on the flight home from Saudi Arabia to deal with the shitstorm that was the White House, always. The Times article about the dinner Trump and Comey had in January really didn't help.

"Washington is hell," Reince replies shortly. "Though I'm glad I don't have to see Kushner for another week. That little upstart brat looks at me like I'm not even good enough to be dog shit on his shoe."

"He's right. You're fucking the President, Reince. That's pretty desperate." He glances pointedly at Reince's mouth. Reince self-consciously traces his still-swollen lower lip.

"Jared's married to his daughter. I'd say that's worse. It's, you know, dynastic or whatever. Not on the same level as an honest fuck."

"In your dreams, Priebus. You know you're about as desperate as you can be. 'Honest fuck'? What even is that? But I do wonder how far you've still got to go." Steve sounds mildly curious, as though Reince is an interesting lab rat to be studied, then cast aside once its purpose is fulfilled.

"Funny," Reince muses. "Sean asked me more or less the same thing before we flew out. Anyway, fuck off. I'm done talking about this."

"Oh, go to hell, Priebus." Steve waves to an attendant. "Could you get me a whiskey?"

"Whiskey soda?"

"Hell no. Straight."

"Oh god," Reince groans.

"I'm sorry, Sean." Reince stands in Sean's open doorway, watching him obsessively rearrange his desk.

"About what?" Sean snaps.

"You not being able to meet the Pope."

"It was probably because I'm associated with you." Sean assiduously avoids his gaze, thus failing to see Reince's disbelieving frown. "I don't need your pity."

Reince strides up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. Sean doesn't push him away, appearing to almost revel in the contact. He tips his head back to look up at him. "We're not too good for anything, are we?"

Reince doesn't reply. Sean continues: "So I guess pity from you is equivalent to compliments from Sarah."

"Those are a thing?" Reince queries, surprised.

"Once or twice…" Reince makes to remove his hand, but Sean places his on top, keeping it in place. "Seriously, Reince. Don't waste your time with pity. Think about yourself for a change…"

*

"I feel blessed to be working on your agenda," Reince gushes, glaring around at the rest of the cabinet. There are no smiles, no sympathy. Not even from the President, whose expression doesn't shift at Reince's oblations.

No one responds, really, except to not respond. He's simply so far beneath them now that they have no need to acknowledge him. And, he supposes, when Chuck Schumer of all people decides to do an impression of you, something has gone terribly wrong. Not that he wasn't intimately aware of that already.

He doesn't care. No, really. The President is his life now. The President is everything: The bearer of his soul, the arbiter of his future. The cabinet, the country, can mind their own damn business, and keep their mockery to themselves.

*

Going back to the RNC is easy, comforting. He understood it, made it the best he could. And oh, how he misses it.

Ronna isn't thrilled by any stretch. "Reince," she says, her pointed nose thrust into the air in disdain, "This isn't your job anymore."

"So I can't drop by when I need a break from the White House?"

Her hands twist uncomfortably. "Your time is past," she says quietly. "This is my job now, and I serve the Party."

"I did, once," he murmurs.

"And now you serve the President," she says, brightening. "Honestly, that's way more important than the RNC."

"But—"

"We'll talk later, all right?" she says. "I have things to do, donors to hit up, so on and so forth. I'm sure you've got schedules to… maintain."

Humiliating, as ever. His successor can use what he built and he… He's aware of what goes on, and can do nothing. God, how he wishes he'd never left… The RNC wasn't humiliating, like certain other… jobs (until it was, when _he_ came to call as more than a donor to court).

("Reince, would you be a dear and kill that fly?" The others in the office look on impassively or with faint disgust as Reince—ultimately—chases down the troublesome insect. Good god, he should be paid extra for this.)

*

Reince drops the President's morning packet of positive news coverage on his desk. "Here you go," he says. "And today's best story is about the release of the Senate's Obamacare replacement."

Trump paws through the papers, shrugging as he finishes. "Looks good to me," he says. "It's going to pass, right? They're certain it will?"

"I… yes, of course."

"I mean, because if it doesn't, bad things will happen to certain people," Trump asserts.

As if Reince doesn't know this already. "I don't have contacts in the Senate the way I do in the House, Mr. President."

Trump snorts disbelievingly. "Oh, and you've done such a good job with the House. If this doesn't pass, Reince, you should start looking for another job. Also, the White House is a fucking nightmare, with all the chaos and confusion. Clean it up, okay?"

Reince's shoulders slump. "Yes, sir."

"Oh, cheer up," Trump tells him. "I'm sure you can pick things up by July 4th, right?"

"Right." Two low-level staffers stand near the door, waiting to deliver reports to him. He nods at them, and gestures for them to follow him to his office.

"July 4th?" one asks.

"I guess so."

Four days later, a report appears in Politico about his deadline. Fuck! He doesn't care enough to fire either of the two possible leakers. It would draw attention he doesn't need. When he next sees them, both act as if nothing has happened, as if he hasn't done them a favor. Definitely for the best, though he wishes someone would express gratitude for the boon he had the power to grant…

*

"Hey, Reince?"

"What is it, Sean?" Reince asks, trying fruitlessly to sort through conflicting reports about the response to the news of Don Jr.'s monumental fuck-up.

"What's in a nothing burger? I was thinking of making some when I have time off, you know, for a get-together or whatever."

Reince rubs his forehead. "Really, Sean? Is that the best you can come up with?"

"But I've never heard such beautiful BS!" Sean tells him earnestly. "I couldn't have done better."

Reince can't help but smile thinly at this. "Oh, you would have come up with something. Sarah is no replacement for you."

"You mean it?" Sean queries.

"Absolutely."

Sean blushes, his eyes skittering away from Reince's face to focus on a point just above his left shoulder. "Thanks," he says quietly, and leaves without another word. Goodness. He couldn't be more obvious if he tried.

*

Moran and Lee put the nail in a coffin. Reince hopes it isn't as decisive as it feels, bitter and difficult to swallow.

("What the hell!" Trump shouts. "Those assholes!")

There comes a point, Reince guesses, when things truly can't get any worse, when they have reached their intangible limit of catastrophe.

His supposition is wrong, naturally. He's been wrong about most things since Trump came to collect his soul.

His final doom arrives, this time with no pretty window dressing.

*

Anthony Scaramucci scrabbles his way into a job, despite everything Reince does to prevent it. So much for having influence over the White House.

He finds Sean just after he submits his resignation. "I can't blame you. I really can't."

Sean grimaces, pushing a hand through his hair and glowering around his office. "You're sticking around, aren't you? Just can't get enough of their abuse?"

(The fly incident comes irresistibly to mind.) "I said I'd make it a full year," he settles on replying. "I can handle whatever else they want to throw."

Sean looks worried. "Scaramucci's gonna be out for your blood… like, maybe they hired him to take you out…"

"Let him at me," Reince says mulishly. "I'm the one with experience here."

The worry lines around Sean's mouth only deepen. "Good luck," he says bleakly, and hugs him.

*

Scaramucci comes sailing in like he owns the place. "Just so we're clear," he says, after perfunctorily shaking Reince's hand, giving it a deliberately painful squeeze for old times' sake, "I report directly to the President."

"Okay." Reince can't say he's surprised. Doesn't prevent the bile rising to his throat or the sharp twinge as the blood leaves his face. The Mooch is happy—happy!—about this, damn him.

"Sorry not sorry, Priebus," Scaramucci goes on. "Only telling you now so you aren't surprised when it counts and make an even greater ass of yourself." He waggles his fingers, smirking.

"That's kind of you," Reince hedges.

"Yeah, I thought so, too." Scaramucci walks away without further acknowledgment. And why shouldn't he?

He'll make his year, Reince vows, even if he has to drag the Mooch down to hell with him.

But sentiments like that don't hold up to reality…

The final week is like no other. Mike—the other Mike—resigns on Tuesday with a fervent "gettin' outta here before I'm fired, guys!" which is just typical. Of everyone. That isn't Reince. Fucking cowards.

No one listens to him. No one wants to talk to him. Except Steve, who gets a perverse enjoyment from his misery. (Well, at least someone is happy-ish.)

"No pretending anymore," Steve notes. "Gloves are off, pitchforks are out… And it's not even my turn yet."

"Fuck you," Reince spits.

"Fuck me? You're the one that's fucked here. I've got things to do once I'm out of this hellhole. But you?" Steve pats Reince's hand with frightening gentleness.

"I'll make it a year. I have time to figure something out." Steve just rolls his eyes.

Okay. So maybe not even Steve is listening to him.

In the Senate, vote after vote fails (but hey, at least they're voting on something). No matter. They'll eventually pass a replacement of some kind… right?

The Mooch makes accusations so ridiculous that it's far beneath him to acknowledge them. He isn't leaking, and the man's an idiot.

The New Yorker interview is so outrageous that he doesn't really care. (How dare that piece of shit insult him like that! How dare he be so fucking unprofessional, just like he thought he'd be! How dare— But paranoiac is a new word, just for him.) No, he doesn't care at all.

"I'm curious," Steve says, laughing hard enough to choke, his eyes flashing in rage. "How flexible do you think I am?"

Reince shudders. Steve takes pity on him and pours him a drink—more of that awful cheap scotch, naturally. "You don't have to answer that," he says. "I doubt I could actually suck my own cock, but I haven't tried… recently."

Reince tries to clear his throat, but it comes out as more of a kitten-like growl.

When McCain votes no on the last-ditch effort at repeal—Skinny Repeal, as they're calling it, Reince is half-asleep, and is moderately convinced at first he is dreaming. Then he pinches himself, and it hurts like hell, so… he isn't dreaming… He's sitting at home, for once, because he can't do much of anything at the White House. He wakes up Sally, who is… far from pleased.

"What time is it?" she protests.

"I think I'm doomed," he replies.

"That's nothing new. Why wake me up?"

"Obamacare lives on," he tells her.

"Oh, yeah, you're doomed," she agrees, with only the barest trace of sympathy. "Just go to sleep already. There's nothing you can do right now."

"Obviously there was never anything I could do."

She closes her eyes. "You don't say."

Before they all board the flight to Long Island in the morning, no one is terribly happy. Scaramucci ignores him. The President doesn't…

"Don't say a word," Trump growls, pulling him out of sight of the others and kissing him—hard. Reince tries to respond in kind, but is pushed away roughly. "No," Trump says, walking away. "That's it." Dread fills him, and he follows the President mutely back to where everyone waits. 

The return trip from Long Island is all he remembers for weeks. Scaramucci nods cordially at him. The President Tweets that he's been replaced with Kelly. Par for the course, really.

He's lost all capacity for surprise or indignation.

He is driven away in the rain, all by himself. There are no farewells. It's over, just like that.

He did not complete his year…

*

Whatever Wolf thinks he's going to give, Reince fails to give it. He has nothing to say against the President, nothing to say against anyone. This is how things should be. He has been ousted, and it's for the best. Why… why won't Wolf understand?

"It's been great talking with you," Wolf says. Reince doubts it. He didn't say what was expected. Everyone watching wants him to regret, and he cannot. Will not.

I'm sorry, Sean texts him.

Don't be, he replies. Everything is exactly how I wanted it to be.

He's not lying—to Sean or to himself or to anyone. The Party is in power, and he… He is a requisite casualty.

It's all for the best.

**Author's Note:**

> The end of a fucking era.
> 
> This is definitely the last Priebus fic I will ever write. I mean it this time...
> 
> The [Times](https://www.nytimes.com/2017/05/05/us/politics/reince-priebus-health-care.html?mcubz=0) article that talks about Reince the hovering butler and Ryan-ce. If you haven't, read it. It's pure gold.


End file.
